


11043.91 kilometers to you

by 100demons



Category: Korean Drama, 닥치고 꽃미남 밴드 | Shut Up Flower Boy Band
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:42:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seung-hoon studies abroad in America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	11043.91 kilometers to you

The plane glides over the city skyline, crowned by a thousand glittering lights and he can’t help but draw in the lines of Seoul’s jagged towers of steel below him. The Hudson turns into the Han River and he imagines that the Empire State Building a little thinner and taller, like Namsan Tower.

It’s Seung-hoon who turns, just a half a degree to his right, and opens his mouth as if to say something. ( _Isn’t it beautiful?_ ). But there’s nothing beside him but an empty seat and he closes it without a sound. It’s James who turns his Galaxy VI on and snaps a quick picture, quickly scrawling out a message ( _NYC!_ ) before sending it with a tap of his finger.

He gently folds Seung-hoon, tucking it away deep inside himself (right next to Ryu) and shakes out James and drapes it over his shoulders. He smoothes down the wrinkles in his slacks and checks the time on his watch, already adjusted before the flight to account for the time difference.

Eleven years to the dot and James Yoo has come back home to America.

 

\---

The first son of the first son for ten generations (and counting) of the Pungsan Yoo, each name carefully inscribed in the jokbo with a careful, steady hand. His father’s name, his grandfather’s name, his great-grandfather and so on, their entire lives marked by dark slashes of ink.

Chungook Inc. was more than just a company, his father had explained, fiddling with the knob of the safe, the dial going _tick tick tick_. It was the work of countless generations, of a bloodline unbroken from the Joseon dynasty continuing into modern Korea. The door swung open soundlessly on oiled hinges and he could see stacks of books bound in the old style, each yellowed and cracked with age.

It had been his duty, his father continued, to uphold the records and keep them safe. To honor the memories of their ancestors and ensure that they would not be forgotten.

He can still remember the smell: dust, mixed with dried ink and the scent of pine needles. It tickled his throat with every breath and he remembers fighting the urge to cough.

One day, his father had said, his dark eyes grave. This too will be your duty, Yoo Seung-hoon.

 

\---

He declares as soon as possible, handing in the paperwork for the registrar’s office with the ink still wet with his pre-major advisor’s signature.

_This is very unusual, Jim. I can call you Jim, right?_

He had shrugged. _Well, I guess I just know what I want to do._

The office had been bare, almost spartan in its sensibilities. There was only a simple desk, a few sentimental photos and a single frame of a music sheet hanging from the wall behind the desk. PROFESSOR J. HARDEN hung from the open door, its edges parallel to the lines of the door.

 _Can’t argue with that. But if you ever change your mind_. Harden had tapped his pen on the paperwork and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. _You come straight back, alright?_

He had smiled and nodded and made all the appropriate motions. _Of course._ The signed paper slid easily into his folder, which he slipped neatly into his messenger bag. It was only when he stood up to leave that he noticed what exactly Professor Harden had framed on the wall.

 _Chopin Prelude in E Minor._ It had slipped out of him, as natural as a quick exhale of breath.

_You know it?_

He had paused and reconsidered the man sitting before him. _It’s an interesting choice_ , he finally said before he left, heart thudding away in his ears and a knowing smile following him down the hallway.

YOO, SEUNG-HOON. ID: 4762394  
MAJOR: BUSINESS MANAGEMENT

 

 

\---

It’s reading period and he had slipped out of his dorm for a quick coffee and a break from the relentless glare of his laptop. He wanders the streets instead, his gloved hand leaching warmth from the paper cup, the wind nipping playfully at his cheeks.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he fumbles with the cup before reaching into his jacket, fingertips clumsy with cold. It’s a text from Su-ah and he flicks it open, breath fogging up the screen.

_Good luck on your exams! Fighting!~_

There’s a whole series of emoticons studying, dancing and drinking beer that follow it, a story told in fragmented cartoon figures. He can imagine her carefully going through KaKaoTalk’s library of pictures, dark head bent over her phone, the curve of her throat illuminated by the dim light. He reflexively checks the time-- 6:06 PM, Fri December 12.

7:06 AM in Seoul; she must have just gotten back from her milk run.

He sends back a quiet thank you and an ordinary yellow smiley face. ( _Is it because of someone you like?_ ). The boundaries of their new, fragile, friendship are clear and he respects them. One skype chat every week, casual conversation about studies, music, Hae-ri noona’s new boyfriend, the latest Murakami book. KaTalk messages on the weather and how much he misses real, spicy food with red pepper flakes he could see. They move carefully, in measured motions, circling the spaces of the past and their future with caution, punctuated by bright yellow smileys.

He scrolls through his list of chats and sees that there’s a new message from Hae-ri noona, muttering about how Mother was on her case about marriage again and a few links to music videos from Pyo-joo, with the comment _more of those stupid ballads you like, dumbass._

“You gonna come in or what?”

Instinctively, he blanks the screen of his phone and slips into his jacket pocket.

“What-- oh,” he blinks and steps aside, coffee sloshing onto the plastic lid of his cup. He had stopped in front of an entrance, blocking the door the man in front of him is trying to open. “Sorry.”

The man shoots him a dirty look before elbowing past the glass door and down the street. It swings shut and he can see the peeling stickers on the glass, illuminated by the streetlight behind him: ROOST CAFE. LIVE MUSIC FRI & SAT! He peers through the thick pane and can make out vague clusters of round little tables circling a stage and a battered looking upright piano.

The rush of of warm air feels delicious on his face and he can feel the tips of his ears thaw a little as the door shuts behind him. The cup of coffee is unceremoniously dumped into the first trashcan he spots as he makes his way to the back of the cafe and towards the register.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

He slides over a crisp twenty dollar bill. “An Americano and an hour at the piano.”

 

\---

“Have you finished playing around now, Seung-hoon?”

“I’ve already received word from Wharton and NYU. Columbia and Stanford should be coming next week.”

His father shifts in his mammoth-sized armchair, swirls of steam wafting up from the teacup and framing his strong chin. “That’s not an answer.”

“I know my duty,” Seung-hoon says. “I’ve never forgotten.”

“It seemed like you did when you went public with that Ryu nonsense. I tolerated it only as a hobby and only because you kept it quiet.” A quick clink of porcelain as his father sets the cup down on the coffee table at his feet. “It’s enough that I have one child in the entertainment business. I don’t have any other sons, Yoo Seung-hoon.”

What can he say? That none of this is child’s play, that his decision to reveal himself had been a declaration of war, that he had clawed his way to the top of the mountain and found it so achingly empty that every breath was a struggle.

“I understand, Father.” He bows his head. “I won’t disappoint you this time.”

Only himself.

 

\---

He picks out the beginning notes for Chopin’s Prelude, his fingers a little unsure on the keyboard. It’s been months but the notes are the same (perhaps a little mellower than the Steinway back home) and he lets himself fall into the measures.

He winds his way through the music, his fingers aching to find resolution and falling short, over and over again, sliding over keys so worn they’re a dull yellow. At the very end, he leans forward, nose almost touching the keys and listens to the thrum of the strings echoing in the air.

“Wow, that was amazing.”

He looks up at a blinding bright smile lined in dark red, waves of hair falling down the front of a sheer white blouse.

“It’s nothing,” he say automatically and draws himself together, folding his hands in his lap. “I’m out of practice.”

“Lisa,” she says and sticks out a hand. “Manager and co-owner. I heard you paid Kelly for an hour at this dingy old wreck.”

He takes it, not very surprised at the strength of her grip. She reminds him a little too much of Hae-ri noona in the way she looks at him, calculating and appraising.

“Just needs a little tuning,” he says. “But she plays fine.”

“Well, it’s decent for something I picked off the curb. Made her sound like a real Steinway, though....” She trails off speculatively.

He blinks and realizes she’s asking for a name. “I--” _James Yoo, Business Management Major. Yoo Seung-hoon, heir to Chungook Corporation. Prince of Jungsang High._

_I can call you Jim, right?_

“Jim,” he says easily. “You can call me Jim.”

 

\---

In between sets he does economics problems and writes essays about the fall of the Roman Empire, fueled with an endless supply of Americanos. In the margins of his notes on Julius and Octavius he scrawls measures and bars and notes that remind him of bean sprouts, planted in the midst of history.

“Business major? At least you look the type,” Lisa says, sweeping a hand at his pressed button down and slacks with sharp creases. “But with your talent, I would have pegged you to be a music student.”

“I’ve got to make a living somehow,” he says, fingers instinctively plucking out the opening bars for Love U Like U. He can almost hear Ye-rim sing the opening verses and he thinks that she’d like this sort of place.

“I like that, what’s it called?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, forcing his fingers to still. “Just something I heard on the radio on the other day.”

“It’s good! But then again, you can make even a commercial jingle sound like Beethoven.” Lisa laughs and picks up the empty mug of coffee on top of the piano. “Refill?”

“Please,” he says, trying not to sound grateful when she winks and leaves him alone. He breathes out, slow and measured, and considers the keys in front of him. He waits for a beat, then two, and he continues the song where he left off.

 

\---

They hold court in a corner of the cafe, imported bookbags and half-empty Americanos littering the table tops. Na-hee raises a carefully manicured finger and one of the younger girls sitting in a stool beside her skitters away, half-muttering, “soy milk, no sugar, whipped cream--”

Like a scene out of a sageuk; replace her artfully made bun with a heavy wig and her billowing skirt (straight out of _high-cut_ ) with a court hanbok and Nahee could be a queen, fit for any king of Joseon.

“Seung-hoon,” she croons, her pink lips quirking up into a cutting smile. “Where have you been! I’ve been so worried about you.”

No, not a queen. Perhaps a scheming concubine, like Jang Hui-bin. Every rose has its thorns.

“Studying,” Seung-hoon says and smiles in return. “You know how fathers are, Na-hee sunbae.” Illegitimate daughter of a politician with enough money to buy half the top 100 companies in Korea five times over. Seung-hoon had been the top ranking student in Jung Sang High; he always does his homework.

“I thought I told you to call me noona, Seung-hoon. Drop the jondaemal, we’re friends.” It sounds more like a command than a request.

“I could never,” he demurs and settles himself on an empty chair, setting his bag carelessly by his side. “Besides, Hae-ri noona will be angry at me if she finds out I’ve been calling people other than her noona.” He marks the flash in her eyes and satisfaction curls in his chest; if he’s going to have to make his requisite visit to keep up appearances, he might as well enjoy himself.

“Ah, Seung-hoon-ssi, would you like something to drink?” Kang Chul-soo, junior, son of a prominent tax lawyer. He vaguely reminds Seung-hoon of Deo-mi, always following Na-hee around like a lost puppy.

“No, but thank you for offering.”

“If you’re worried about costs, save it! Na-hee noona will cover for you, dear.” Seung-hoon grips the edges of his seat a little tighter.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says coolly and forces his fingers to unclench.

“A part-time job at a cafe?” Na-hee sneers, her eyes glittering. “I guess things must be getting a little rough for you. Who knows, you might even have to live in a rooftop apartment. I wonder if they have any in America,” she muses and her coterie titters in response, as if she’s made a particularly clever joke.

It’s fortunate that Na-hee’s father is rich from all the bribes he swallows under the table; otherwise, she would have a difficult time relying on either her face or her brain. “Just a little extra hands-on experience before I go into the family business,” Seung-hoon smiles, showing a little more teeth than necessary. “I’m not here to play around, sunbae.”

Na-hee’s little servant girl comes rushing back with an armful of pastries and drinks and he takes it as his cue to leave. Five more minutes and he might even pull a Pyo-joo and flip the table in her face.

He stands up and casually slings his bag over his shoulder. “Good luck, sunbae-deul,” he nods. “Midterms are coming up soon. Study hard.”

“Thanks,” Chul-soo says a little too brightly. “See you around, Seung-hoon.”

He sincerely hopes he never has to see their faces again. “Of course,” he replies and manages to restrain himself from breaking out into a run. The further he gets away from the cafe, the more his shoulders relax and the more he can feel like he can breathe. Before he knows it, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, KaTalk open and ready the minute he clicks it on.

 

> Su-ah: Shin ramen for dinner last night! And it actually tasted like ramen!!

He hesitates for a long moment before he types out a response.

 

> Seung-hoon: I wish I could have some of your cooking.

No, that sounds too-- He flushes and quickly deletes it.

 

> Seung-hoon: Your skills have improved! I bet it’s delicious :)

Better. He presses send before he can second guess it again. He remembers, dimly, a time when he could send whatever he wanted without caring, without negotiating the new spaces that have sprung up between them. Before Kwon Ji-hyuk and Eye Candy. He remembers, much more clearly, how it felt to be alone in the midst of a war.

His phone vibrates once, twice, three times and he looks down.

 

> Pyo-joo: So, what’d you think of the music?

He smiles.

 

> Seung-hoon: Not bad. Did Ma-ro pick them out?  
>  Pyo-joo: WHAT, OF COURSE I DID.  
>  Seung-hoon: I thought you didn’t like ballads.  
>  Pyo-joo: I DON’T, YOU DUMBASS. I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE STILL FRIENDS, YOU’RE THE WORST.  
>  Seung-hoon: Have you been working on your strumming?  
>  Pyo-joo: What do you care? Asshole betrayer.  
>  Pyo-joo: AND I’VE GOTTEN A MILLION TIMES BETTER, WITHOUT ANY OF YOUR HELP.  
>  Pyo-joo: ANY OF YOUR HELP!!!!  
>  Pyo-joo: also ballads suck. LIKE YOU.

It’s good to see that some things stay the same.

 

> Seung-hoon: Good to hear. We should jam when I get back.  
>  Pyo-joo: Like I would jam with a loser like you.  
>  Seung-hoon: Maybe even get Ma-ro in on it and whoever that drummer was. Strawberry Fields comeback tour, Summer 2014.

There’s a long, long silence and Seung-hoon manages to cross five blocks without a text, fingers clenched tight around his Galaxy. Finally, his phone vibrates again.

 

> Pyo-joo: My Dad got me a new car so we don’t have to have Hae-ri noona drive us around like losers.

He just barely manages to restrain himself from fist pumping and coughs into his fist instead.

 

\---

He slides from _Fly Me to The Moon_ into something he’s been working on during his Roman history class. Nameless, with only a few lyrics cobbled together in the margins, it’s still the first piece he’s composed since Ryu went on hiatus. He pauses a few times during the bridge, mentally noting the places that need further work and finishes with a flourish of major chords, fingers nimbly sliding over the well-worn keys.

“Bravo.”

He freezes at the voice and slowly raises his head.

“James.”

Hae-ri noona claps slowly and it echoes in the nearly-empty cafe. Kelly looks up from her book at the register for a moment before rolling her eyes.

“Noona,” he forces out and stands up, pushing the piano bench aside. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know how much you like surprises,” she says coyly before sipping at her cup of tea. “Surprise, dear baby brother.”

He makes his way over to her table, fighting the urge to pout like a five year old. It feels strange to see Hae-ri in the cafe, like someone’s cut out her figure from one of her official HR Entertainment photos and pasted it over a vintage black and white photo. “What are you doing here?”

“You were always the rude one,” she says, arching a brow. “I can’t come over and say hello where my brother works?”

He takes the seat across from her and waits.

“We never did have that kind of relationship,” Hae-ri sighs and the sharp lines of her face soften a little.

He tries to imagine if they even could and fails.

“Do you remember, right when you came out as Ryu...it’s been what, two years now? You told me that you weren’t afraid of Father.” Hae-ri fiddles with the handle of her cup.

“No,” he says, running through all the reasons why she would drop by in his mind. Hae-ri noona’s new (secret) boyfriend, HR Entertainment’s relationship with Chungook Corporation, her support of Ryu’s short career. “I’m not.”

“Did you know I cried when Mom said she was pregnant with a son?” Hae-ri leans her chin on her hand, eyes half-lidded. “I cried because I didn’t have to pretend to Father that my greatest dream was to inherit the company any longer.”

Another sip of tea. “I guess you could say I employed Ryu out of a sense of guilt. Or gratitude.”

His mouth goes dry. “Noona...”

“I know what you’re afraid of, Seung-hoon,” she says and she places a hand next to his, not quite touching, but close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off her skin. “And I’m sorry that I left you to face it alone.”

He thinks of the safe and his own name locked away inside, the smell of dust and old yellow paper. “It’s my duty,” he says and thinks of Su-ah’s face, beaming up at him in a crowd of hundreds, the piano softly crooning underneath his touch. “There’s no need to feel sorry.”

“Some things need to be said.”

They sit in silence and he looks at his sister for what seems like the first time. They both have their Father’s chin; she has Mom’s eyes. Pungsu Yoo and Gimhae Kim.

“It’s a shame,” he says quietly, “that women aren’t permitted to be officially on record.” _You would have made a better heir_ , he thinks.

“I don’t need my name in some book to validate my existence.” _Thank you._ Her chair scrapes on the floor as she stands up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I should go, my plane’s leaving in an hour.”

“You took a thirteen hour flight just to come here to say that?” he asks, his voice dry.

“Business trip,” she corrects him, tossing her head back. “It was good seeing you. _James._ ” The smile she gives him shows more teeth than he’s comfortable with. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s his own smile, reflected back at him in Hae-ri noona’s face.

 

\---

It’s raining during his last day of work and Seung-hoon ducks into the cafe, throwing away the piles of am New York he’d used to shield his head. He winds his way past the tables filled with college students hunched over laptops and books, armed with highlighters and cups of coffee, and gives Kelly a nod hello.

The piano is sitting up on the stage, bench pulled out and a hot steaming cup of coffee waiting for him on top of it. Seung-hoon sips at it meditatively, running through the music in his head. He sets the coffee to the side, on the floor so there’s no danger of a spill on the piano.

He picks out a chord and waits for the room to quiet.

“I wrote this song for this girl I liked,” Seung-hoon says, speaking aloud for the first time. It earns him a couple of grins and quiet laughs. “She liked it, but not enough to like me back.” This time, nearly everyone in the room is looking up at him and Lisa gives him a sly grin from the back, near the register.

Seunghoon sets his hands on the piano and picks out the opening notes for Words You Shouldn’t Know. If he closes his eyes, he can see Su-ah leaning over the piano, bright eyes crinkled at the corner.

 _I could have given you the world_ , he thinks and lets the song end.

An hour and a dozen cups of coffee later (most of them bought by appreciative listeners), Seung-hoon ends his set, buzzed from a heady mixture of caffeine and performer’s high.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Lisa says, wiping down a table and giving him a keen look. Seung-hoon shrugs, legs dangling over the edge of the stage. “You never asked,” he says, fingers drumming on the wooden top with a frenetic air.

“What a way to go,” Lisa sighs, slapping down the cloth on the table and settling into a chair. “Will I be seeing you again in the fall?”

Seung-hoon tilts his head, savoring the taste in his mouth. “Maybe,” he says and smiles.

 

\---

“We’ll be landing in Incheon in twenty minutes, the time is four twenty in the afternoon and the weather is bright and sunny without a cloud in sight. Please prepare yourself for the landing; all chairs must be in their original position and all seat belts must be buckled. Thank you and welcome to Seoul.”

Seung-hoon saves the email he’s been working on and powers down his laptop, sliding it into the carry-on bag he’d stashed underneath his seat. He checks his watch compulsively, already set to account for the time difference before the flight and hopes that Pyo-joo has managed to find the right terminal this time. Even with Ma-ro in tow, Pyo-joo has an alarming habit of getting distracted by anything walking and in a skirt.

Tomorrow, there will be meetings with his father and Seung-hoon estimates that at least four mugs will be broken before the day is over. There will be lectures about duty and honor and about maintaining the company image and Seung-hoon will be forced to listen to all of it on his knees, back maintained at a rigid ninety degrees to the ground. His father will try to convince him of the error of his ways and Seung-hoon will endure it all silently, shoulders unbowed.

But tonight, Seung-hoon will buy his friends a round and they’ll pile into Pyo-joo’s car and drive to the nearest studio. He has a new song that he’d like to show off to his friends and maybe, maybe he’ll even send the recording to Su-ah, because she is Seung-hoon’s friend too.

 

\---

> Seung-hoon: I wrote something new. Do you want to listen to a sample of it?  
>  Su-ah: I’d love to!!! Hurry up and send it!!  
>  Seung-hoon: _11043.91 kilometers to you.mp3_


End file.
